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“L’amour de loin”; love from afar; Medieval Courtly Love; King Arthur and Queen Guinevere love – leave it to the French to create an incredibly seductive yet torturous form of love and sell a bunch of books about it, lulling all of us mere mortals into believing that it’s trendy and fulfilling.

Love from afar is like the croissant; the French pretend that they eat croissants “for breakfast” and that croissants are the key to balanced lifestyles. So then we Americans go to Costco and buy a bunch of croissants and eat ten in one sitting, and we wonder, “Why can’t I see my genitals when I stand naked and look down at my feet?” Spoiler alert: you can’t see your genitals because the French don’t eat croissants for every breakfast. And you also can’t find fulfillment in “love from afar” because you can’t see past the fact that you can’t see your genitals. This all comes down to croissant, really. Are you following?

Alright, I’m being dramatic. I’m not in love. But I do have a crush on someone who doesn’t know I exist. Actually, I believe that somewhere, deep, deep down, John Mayerdoes know I exist and is just waiting to tell me…that I exist…and that he cares about my existence… (and yes, I am holding my breath for this affirmation, so if I start to turn blue in the face, dial 911 and don’t leave my side until I’m in the hands of a capable medical professional).

I recently attended John Mayer’s Boston concert with my mom. Before the concert, I was an enormous John Mayer fan. I’ve always listened to his music. In fact, his “No Such Thing” music video was one of the first videos I ever saw, after my aunt accidentally left MTV playing on the TV and I snuck in to watch a whole ten seconds of the music video. (Music videos were banned and yet I somehow managed to watch Jerry Springer on all of my sick days? Suspicious parenting, at best.)

A week has passed since the aforementioned Mayer extravaganza, and yet, I still find myself…crushing.

Like Gluten-free cookies, these friends are sweet; but they’re wrong. This is different.

I’m no fool. I know that concerts do weird things to people.

The first concert I ever went to was the Dave Matthews Band concert. I was ten and everyone around me was high. Some dude spilled beer on my sweatshirt, and I wore it to fifth grade the next day and told my teacher to smell it. Clearly, this concert had me thinking I was a 19-year-old frat boy.

One time, I saw Train in concert, and it started raining, right as they started playing “Drops of Jupiter.” I remember thinking that I’d never forget that moment. I then proceeded to go to the dining hall and eat five pieces of pie. Five pieces. All because of the concert.

When I went to Adele’s concert, I forewent drinking so that I could “soak up every moment.” Who was this girl? Why wasn’t she drinking? She was clearly possessed.

So you see? I know that concerts can cause abnormal behavior. But something in me changed during the John Mayer concert. It wasn’t the two beers I drank, or the fact that I ate some weird Thai food before the show and thought that maybe I’d contracted a parasite…There was a cosmic shifting of my soul, and I know that it was caused by a crushing crush.

I’m not even someone who gets celebrity crushes. Ok, sure, when I was 11, I once spent an entire weekend watching Leonardo DiCaprio’s deleted scenes from Titanic. I was supposed to be studying for a “math final,” but I couldn’t rip myself away from Leo, and so I scored a 74 on the test.

But I’m an adult now and I rarely have tests anymore because grad school is more of a “project-based” type of learning environment…so I’m all good, academically.

I felt swept up by John’s musical talent, his weird, scrunched up facial expressions while playing the guitar, and his ability to play the piano and whistle at the same time. I think I’m letting this celebrity crush continue because the universe is slowly but surely signaling to me that John Mayer and I are meant to be together. Shall I break it down for you (John)? Here’s a list of the whys:

At the concert, John played the song “Why Georgia,” which is my mom’s absolute favorite song. She started screaming and kind of growling, and I briefly felt embarrassed because the gentleman in front of her looked like he might say something, like, “Ma’am, are you choking on a chicken bone?” But then, right at that moment, John started playing “Dear Marie,” which is my favorite song. It was like he was sending me a message, saying, “Don’t worry about the haters. That guy is probably jealous or vegan. You do you, boo.” That’s when I knew that he’d tailored the entire concert to fit my emotional needs. What has your soulmate done for you today?

On a recent evening, I fell into a deep, dark internet hole. I found myself on John’s Twitter account, which is how I found a tweet from him, in which he proclaimed his love for mediocre movies from the late ‘90s, to the early 2000s. He may have been being “ironic” (it’s hard to sense tone over Twitter), but I’m sure this tweet came from a place of truth. Norah Ephron rom-coms spanning the entire ‘90s decade comprise my favorite genre of film, and so I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about. Maybe he loves Tom Hanks as much as I do? A girl can dream.

In an interview with Ellen DeGeneres, John said that he’s a fan of The Bachelor, but that he can only sit through the season premiere because two hours per week is a lot of “buy-in” time for the average viewer. This is something with which I completely agree. What else could I do with two hours? Let’s see: learn how to ride a moped; research sharks; invest in multiple IKEA lamps and then see which one breaks first; train a pony to deliver me snacks on its back; domesticate a long-haired latte artist. The list continues…I think John and I are on the same page with this one. Give me just one hour of women crying and pretending to eat recreational fruit bowls, and I’ll be forever grateful.

John recently said that the drawing of the woman on one of the the front covers of his new album is “her” – his ideal woman – a combination of past, (hopefully not present), and future lovers:

Now, I’m not saying she looks like me, but I’m also not going to argue with the fact that she has long, wavy hair, and I also have long, wavy hair. She also seems to have feathers floating around her head, which either symbolizes her “free spirit” personality, or the fact that she likes chicken. Either way, I’m down.

John is known for getting himself into trouble with the press. While this hasn’t ever happened to me, I did once draw a butt crack on a computer during “computer class” (back when Microsoft Word was like, the futuristic spaceship of its time), and got in trouble with my teacher, after I announced – not very quietly – to my friend, Brandon, that I’d “drawn a butt crack on the computer.” Getting in trouble for spur-of-the-moment self-expression is shocking and upsetting. I’m still trying to get over my reputation as “butt crack girl.” I think we could relate on this level.

So these are the signs from the universe. Now, you might be wondering about the practicalities of it all. It’s sweet of you to worry. Here’s a list of possible concerns and their solutions:

Sure, John is ten-plus-six years older than I. But here’s the thing: after I got busted for drawing that butt crack, I had to mature very quickly. You can’t be a six-year-old “butt crack girl” and look and act like a six-year-old. Even now, guys come up to me in bars and ask me how old I am. This can only mean that I look too old to be in a bar. Which means I’m probably just old enough to be living in Montana with John and his dogs. Plus, it’s not like I can claim I “grew up on John’s music,” because, as I mentioned earlier, I wasn’t allowed to watch his music videos. (Also, Amal and George don’t seem to have any issues.)

“But he’s a world-famous musician! How will you ever get his attention?” It just so happens that I’m going to the Grateful Dead concert at Fenway Park in June, at which John will be playing guitar. Fenway is an intimate, outdoor venue, so when I fly the blimp over Fenway that says, “Dear John, look to your left, no, your other left, by the sausage stand,” he’ll surely see it. I’ll be waiting there for him with a sausage and a soft serve ice cream in a Red Sox souvenir hat because celebrities: they’re just like us – they eat souvenir ice creams!

If the above plan fails, I will just resort to old-fashioned techniques, like moving to Los Angeles and attending hip co-ed parties and hoping to meet him. This approach could go on for years, but there’s something sweet about 70-year-old men raising infants.

“But he’s a womanizer! He’s dated so many famous women! It would never work!” Honestly, if I had as many good-looking ex-boyfriends as John has ex-girlfriends, I’d buy myself a huge molten lava cake, put on some sweats, get a crown, and declare myself Queen of the World. Life moves quickly, and we all have baggage. I know I do. There are literally six Trader Joe’s bags next to me right now, which I’ve yet to unpack and put away. I’m not saying John and I have to be bound together for all time! Please, I’ve got so much living to do. I’m just saying that he has to fall madly in love with me and then can’t feel attracted to any other woman for the rest of time.

Any questions? I think I’ve pretty much covered everything. John is witty, wavy-haired, and creatively talented, which are really all of my requirements.

They say to “write what you know,” but I, clearly, prefer to write about those whom I don’t know, and then hope that they magically discover me.

I’ve also written more about this fantastical love story than I’ve written for any of my final projects and papers that are due in the following weeks…so I guess I lied, and this crush really is impacting me academically.

Bottom line: I need out of this fictitious romance, ASAP. I need a break. It’s been mentally exhausting, knowing that I’m meant to be with someone who’s currently making Japanese-themed music videos to accompany jazz-hybrid music about an *cough cough* ex-pop star girlfriend. He doesn’t have time for me.

So here’s my message for John: you’ve totally ruined this week for me, but I forgive you. Let’s take a break – I think we could both use one. I’ll be at Fenway in June, so let’s go on a date. I think (know) we might be (are, beyond a shadow of a doubt) soulmates. And if you take me on a date and disagree, I’ll give you my souvenir ice cream hat and we’ll call it even.

(Also, I’m moving to LA in the fall, so that’s also totally a possibility. No pressure. Just saying. I’ll be there. Waiting. Just kidding. I don’t wait. But you should. OK. Bye.)

Like this:

Hello! It has been a really long time since I blogged. Not gonna lie, I felt like a part of my soul was missing…like my world had been shattered into tiny pieces of glass, and someone had swept those pieces under a giant shag carpet and thrown the carpet away because, well, it was shag and had bits of glass in it.

(It’s not dramatic if it’s the truth.)

While I was on my blogging hiatus, I studied. A lot. And when I wasn’t studying, I was asking myself, “Should I start packing my stuff up to facilitate the move-out process? Should I be studying instead of watching ‘The Little Mermaid’ for the SECOND time tonight? Should I close the window because it’s snowing pretty aggressively and the snow is blowing into my kitchen?”

The answer to all of those questions was “yes,” but I conveniently decided against all of them. So, I spent a lot of time watching “The Little Mermaid” while my papers dried out from snow exposure.

Besides that, the semester ended well! I saw The Nutcracker, took a statistics exam that made me feel like my brain was the sand under an elephant’s foot, ate a holiday meal in the dining hall, and hung out with my friends.

Did I bother to pack up my apartment before my parents arrived to pick me up at school the other day? Of course not! That would be responsible and helpful. I decided it would be more fun to surprise them.

And I was right.

When my dad walked into my apartment, he said, “Jesus Christ, Sophie, it looks like a tornado came through here.”

“How so?” I asked, sheepishly.

Maybe it was because I’d emptied all of my drawers onto my bed? Maybe he was noticing the stacks of dishes I’d thrown on the floor as a means to start cleaning the kitchen cabinets (only to stop halfway through to eat some trail mix I’d found and had deemed in need of a new home); or, maybe he was struck by the fact that I had a pile of papers labeled, “To be ceremoniously burned,” in the middle of my living room.

I guess any of these factors could have contributed to his reaction.

But you see, I am a last-minute kind of person. I don’t like doing things until I know they are absolutely necessary. So that’s why everything always seems messy and disorganized to third-party observers.

My mom always tells me my life would be so much less stressful if I just “made a check-list and did a few things each day until it was complete.”

Well, Mom, do you know what would happen to that “list” if I were to make one? I would inevitably find a way to get chocolate on it (even if I wasn’t even eating chocolate while making it), bury it in the bottom of my backpack, and then find it three years later…And, NONE of the shit I’d wanted to do would have been completed.

So, that’s why I’m always slightly behind-the-curve. But I figured, what could be wrong with making my parents help me move out of my apartment? I thought it could be a kind of “ceremonious bonding activity” for us to enjoy.

(And by that I mean I needed my mom to help me vacuum and I’m not strong enough to carry boxes down two flights of stairs, so, HELLO DAD.)

I’m not so sure they enjoyed my “ceremonious bonding activity,” however. At one point, I’m pretty sure they wanted to throw my SIXTH suitcase out the window as their own personal “bonding activity.”

But then I played some Michael Bublé Christmas tunes, and the mood seemed to settle a bit.

Four hours later, I was officially moved out of my apartment and headed for home. And then, in a few weeks, I’ll be studying abroad in…EUROPE!

I’ve only been home for about a day, but I’ve already made several observations about being home.

Observation #1:

My room – which has bright PINK wall-to-wall carpeting and bright PINK, flowered wallpaper – is EVEN MORE PINK than I remember. My eyes hurt a little bit as I walked into it. But it was a good kind of hurt, you know? The kind that is uncomfortable in the moment, but that you know you’ll appreciate 20 years down the line when you come home to your parents’ house and immediately feel youthful and rejuvenated because of your pink room.

Observation #2:

We have a “cookie jar.” My mom announced this to me on the ride home, like it was the most exciting thing since sliced bread…WHICH IT TOTALLY IS. You have to understand; I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be one of those families with a constant, never-ending supply of cookies just casually sitting in their kitchen. And now that we are one of these “jar” families, I’m not quite sure how to handle it. It’s a lot of pressure. There’s got to be a “How-To” book on this.

Observation #3:

My suitcases are STILL sitting on my bedroom floor, where I put them after arriving home. They haven’t moved an INCH. I somehow thought they would just kind of unpack themselves, and then I’d be able to call my family upstairs and say, “It’s a Christmas Miracle!” (That was going to be my Christmas present to all of them, but it looks like I’ll have to come up with something else at this point.)

Observation #4:

I still SUCK at baking, so I guess my “I just can’t bake in my apartment because I don’t have enough counter space” excuse is really shot to shit. Last night, my sister and I tried to make cookies to add to our cookie jar. And guess what? I dropped an ENTIRE eggshell into the batter. I didn’t even blink an eyelash, but my sister kicked me out of the kitchen and told me to “go sit on my hands.” She may be a bitch in the kitch, but she knows how to avoid a walking disaster when she sees one.

Observation #5:

Returning to the suburbs initiates a lot of, “this is not how we do it in the city” comments. None of which my family approves:

“Oh, you don’t walk as quickly out here as we do in the city.”

“Stores close at 6pm here? We don’t go to bed until 2am in the city.”

“The air is so fresh out here! How…quaint. Not at all like the air in the city.”

“You wear pajamas to the grocery store? I would never be caught dead doing that in the city.”

You get the gist. Sometimes, my sisters will stop me mid-sentence to say, “WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. You live in THE CITY??? Wow, we had no idea.”

I can always sense their sarcasm. That’s one thing they have in the suburbs that we also have in the city.

Besides these few observations, being home has been pretty normal. I’ve made friends with my couch again; I’ve reintroduced myself to “el fridge”; and, I’ve managed to craft a little remote control/snack and beverage holder that fits perfectly between the couch and the crook of my arm.

So that’s where I’m at. I hope everyone is having an equally thrilling and intellectually stimulating vacation.